The Watcher
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam and Dean seek solitude miles from civilisation, far from pursuing hunters and the FBI. As Sam's visions become more frequent and new abilities rise to the surface, there's nothing Dean won't do to keep his brother safe. But there's something in the woods, and it's waiting for Sam.
1. Chapter 1

This was written for the first ever SPN Eldritch Bang, for which I'm also a moderator and co-creator! I had a lot of fun writing this, spooky stories are my favourite to tell. My artist this year was Artherra and she made some really gorgeous, atmospheric illustrations. To see them, head over to her tumblr. It was her first big bang ever so make sure to give her lots of love! Also, thank you to monicawoe for being my beta, and thank you winchesterpooja for always being there for a chat.

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Beyond the thick canopy of the forest, the sky begins to turn grey. The clouds swell, heavy and eager to burst. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, his arms swing at a steady rhythm, each note ending in the deep crack of wood splitting.

He pauses, muscles aching, and eyes his growing pile of wood. Overhead, the sky rumbles in warning. Dean wraps up the logs in a plastic sheet and hauls them over his shoulder.

Out here in the woods there are no foot trails except for the ones Dean has made himself. His boots are caked in mud and crisp fallen leaves. He retraces his steps through the trees. This deep into the forest, even someone like Dean might get lost. The trees stand silent and identical, spread out so far that Dean can see nothing in the distance but trees, trees, and more trees.

The first drops of rain fall as soon as he has the cabin in his sights. He avoids being drenched under the forest's cover and dashes for the front porch. It shouldn't be dark this early in the day. Dean misses the sun, sometimes. He misses civilisation. He misses his Baby most.

"I told you a storm was coming," Sam says softly, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. For such a big guy, Sam is an expert at popping up unnoticed. Dean didn't notice him sitting on the porch. The kid is wrapped up tight in a brown blanket, camouflaged amongst the wood walls and pillars and floorboards.

"You think it'll be a big one?" Dean asks.

Sam nods, staring out at the trees. His forehead is creased. Whether it's his _trying to figure something out_ crease or his _something's not right_ crease, Dean can't tell. He waits for a moment to see if Sam says anything more, but he doesn't.

Dean doesn't bother asking. _Troubled_ is Sam's near-constant state, these days. He gets to work filling the large tin box on the porch with logs to keep them dry, saving a few for the fire. Their cabin is a small one. _Cramped_ might be the word Dean would use. There's only one room, the kitchen consists of a small gas-fuelled hob and two wood stools on either side of a tiny wood table. There's a couch, handmade of – you guessed it – wood, barely softened by the stained cushions and scratchy wool blanket.

Dean cleans out the fireplace, scrapes the ashes from the bottom, and tosses them outside. Sam finally comes inside once Dean has the fire going, it lights up the entire cabin in warm orange flickers, the _snap, crackle, pops_ echo around the entire room.

"What time is it?" Sam asks. From the kitchen, Dean can only see Sam's hunched back as he faces the fire.

Dean checks his watch. "A few minutes to six," he tells him. "Almost time for dinner."

Their pantry – the rickety shelf above the stove – is packed with tin cans and dried pasta. There's no electricity this far out, nothing to plug a fridge into, or a TV, or even a lamp. They live by candle light.

Dean heats up the first tin his fingers wrap around. Three bean chilli. He finds the last of a bag of rice to go along with it.

"We could do with a supply run," Dean says, idly stirring the chilli. They don't really need a supply run, not yet, Dean's just itching to get out of this cabin, out of this forest, out of the county, even.

The cabin is eerily quiet.

"Anything you want when I go into town tomorrow?"

Nothing.

"Sammy?"

The crack of a deadweight hitting the hardwood makes Dean jump, boiling water splashes his hand. He hisses and spins around. Sam's not on the couch anymore, he's on the floor, curled in a ball, rigid, hands clamped tight against his skull.

Dean's a pro at this by now. He steps quietly, crossing the short distance to the couch and plucks up a couple of pillows. Even with his gentlest touch, Sam still hisses through his teeth as Dean slides the pillows under his head.

Dean leans forward and peeks at Sam's face. His eyes are half-closed, eyelids wavering. His teeth bite into his lower lip, small spots of blood well there. He stays that way a second more before every muscle in his body is pulled taut, his entire body straight like there's a string being yanked from head to toe.

Sam chokes and stops breathing. His fingers scramble at his throat, his heels dig into the floor. Dean's heart races, his chest heaves, he wants so badly to look away, but being here, witnessing this, is all he can do for Sam.

It lasts an uncomfortable few minutes. Almost six and a half. Once it's done, Sam sucks in a great lungful of air and promptly pukes all over Dean.

Sam gasps and scrubs his wet mouth with his hand. He blinks lazily around the room, at their hard couch and crackling fireplace, the pitch black, glossy windows, and finally at Dean, drenched in vomit.

Sam swallows and makes a sour face. "Sorry," he mumbles. His voice is raw, barely there, like someone choked it out of him. Before Dean can ask him any questions, Sam frowns and sniffs the air. "Is – is something burning?"

"Oh fuck," Dean yelps, and dashes back to the stove.

He manages to save half of the chilli, the rest of it burned black and cemented to the pan. The rice has to be tossed out, once he can scrape it from the pot. Once Dean has washed and changed his clothes, and Sam has brushed his teeth for a solid five minutes, they sit at the table for a meagre helping of overcooked chilli.

Sam shuffles his around the plate with his fork, focusing instead on prodding his bitten lip with his finger.

Dean tries not to stare. Tries not to look as worried as he feels. Sam gets pissed when Dean fusses over him, so Dean pretends to enjoy his dinner and says, "What did you see?" like he's asking about the weather.

Sam clears his throat, sounds like he's scrubbed it with sandpaper. "A woman," he says. His fingers rub at his perfectly unmarred neck. "Strangled to death. In, um. There was some mail on the table… I need to think."

He drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter and gets up. Dean doesn't follow him out onto the porch, he knows by now it's best to let Sam stew. He finishes his dinner, every bitter mouthful, and cleans his plate and returns it to the rack.

Sam still hasn't returned inside by the time he's done, but Dean can see his shadow flicker outside as he paces the porch deck. Things are better than they were, those words have become Dean's mantra at times like these. Once, Sam was having visions multiple times a day. It almost killed him. But Dean wasn't going to fucking let that happen, no way, José. He packed Sam up in the Impala and drove them far away enough that they were miles from any cell phone signal.

It could be Armageddon out there, but all Dean knows is this forest and this cabin and Sam. Well, his infrequent trips to the nearest town – a couple hour drive both ways – for supplies have let him know that the human species has yet to go extinct, at least.

Sam's untouched dinner turns cold on his plate, but Dean leaves it where it is. The crickets chirp outside, the last of them still sing their songs before autumn floods in. The sky rumbles deeply, Dean feels it through to his feet, and outside flashes blinding white. Sam's silhouette prints itself on the back of Dean's eyelids, and he sees both Sam and his shadow as he comes back inside, his hair softly damp with rainfall.

Thunder cracks the sky open again, followed by another flash of lightning that fills the whole cabin with white. Sam grins at him.

"Michigan!" he says. "She's in Michigan." He squeezes his eyes closed and punctuates each word with a stab of his finger in the air. "Detroit, Michigan. There was a zip code."

Sam shuffles around. He grabs the bible from the shelf above the fireplace and scribbles something down on the first page. He holds it out to Dean.

"This is where she is. I don't remember a house number, but I'm sure we can find her."

Dean nods. "I'll head into town tomorrow and call Bobby."

Sam furrows his brow. "No. We might not have time. We've got the Impala, let's do this ourselves!"

Dean grips the bible tighter in his hand and flips it closed. "Detroit is a long drive away. And it's a long walk to Baby."

"And tomorrow morning she could be dead!" Sam yells. His chest his heaving, skin shiny with sweat. The rain drums against the roof so hard Dean wonders if it might cave in on them. Sam shakes his head, lips curled unpleasantly, and he marches to the back of the room where their cots are neatly folded. Dean watches him pull an empty duffel from underneath and unzip it.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks tiredly.

"Going to Detroit," Sam answers, shoving his only other clean shirt into his bag. "I'll find this woman, keep her safe."

Dean sighs. "Do you know how many people are in Detroit?"

"About 800,000," Sam says with a shrug. "I've got her zip code, that should narrow the search way down."

"I'm not worried about whether or not you can find her, Sam," Dean says. He rubs his eyes wearily. "You _know_ why I'm worried."

Sam pauses briefly before fishing a pair of socks out of the drawer and tossing them into the bag. "Yeah, I know. I'll be fine, but this woman _won't_ be fine if I sit on my ass here, twiddling my thumbs."

"I told you, man, I'll get Bobby on it. Don't worry about it, okay?"

Sam's jaw clenches, the vein in his neck twitches. "I am _tired_ of you bossing me around, Dean! Stop treating me like some little kid who needs help crossing the street!"

The door swings open and bangs roughly against the wall, rattling the windows. The wind rushes in eagerly and snuffs out all the candles, the fireplace flickers and the flames shrink. Dean gets spat on by the rain in his rush to close the door again, but it doesn't click closed, the lock has been bashed to uselessness.

The wood couch is heavy and Sam wordlessly takes the other end; between the two of them they manage to bar the door closed.

"I'm sorry," Sam mutters, head hanging low. "I – I didn't mean to do that."

"I know you didn't," Dean replies. He retrieves the matches from beside the stove and relights the candles. "But I can't let you go to Detroit. And I can't leave you here alone – "

"Christ, Dean. I'm not a goddamn child."

Dean ignores that. "I can't leave you here alone," he repeats. "Besides, there's no way either of us are going out when it's pissing down like this. Not while it's pitch black."

"Dean – "

"First thing in the morning, I'll head into town and call Bobby," Dean says, no room for protest. He nods his head at Sam's untouched plate. "Now, eat your dinner."

* * *

The morning brings clear pink skies and a leak in the ceiling beside the fireplace. Dean is ice cold, skin prickling over every part of him. The fire went out during the night, the wood floor is soaked. He places a bucket beneath the dripping and listens to the tinny _tap tap tap_ of droplets hitting the can as he cracks eggs into a pan to fry.

The leaf-littered ground is shiny with dew outside. It rained all night long, the sound of it on the roof and the whistle of wind through their barely closed door kept Dean up most of the night. Sam had an episode in his sleep, not bad enough to wake him up, but still bad enough to freak Dean out. They always do.

As the eggs sizzle and turn white over the heat, Dean peeks over his shoulder at Sam, hair over his eyes, face buried in his pillow. He leaves him that way until the eggs are plated up on the table, rousing him with a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

Sam's face scrunches up and he lets out a discontented sigh, eyes closed all the while.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," Dean sing songs.

"What time's it?" Sam mumbles, smacking his lips. Weird, Dean thinks, how Sam used to be the morning person.

"It's about seven," Dean answers, checking his watch. Before, Sam would have already been on a run, showered and picked up coffee, all while Dean remained cocooned in his motel sheets.

Sam drags himself upright and kicks the thin, tangled sheet off his legs. He looks a mess, hair sticking up in all directions, paler than egg whites, the only colour on his face being the purple under his eyes.

"I had a dream," Sam says.

"Oh yeah?" Dean replies, heading over to the table to be sure Sam will follow. Sam shovels in a mouthful of eggs before continuing.

"Wasn't anything we can help with," he says. "Old woman died of natural causes. Just slipped away in her sleep. Not sure where. Not even sure what her name was."

This morning, it's Dean's turn to poke at his food. There's a question he hates to ask, but he asks it anyway. "Did you feel it?"

Sam nods, scraping up the last of his meal with his fork. "Always do."

"How did it feel? Dying?" Dean asks. Dean died once, or nearly did, but he doesn't remember a thing. And then Dad died, and Dean didn't have time to dwell on his own problems.

Sam ponders for a moment, his mouth quirks up at the corner. "It felt peaceful."

.

Sam Winchester spends most of his time thinking about death. He watches an old man drown in his bath after Dean leaves for town. After, Sam coughs up a lungful of water into the kitchen basin, but the steel sink remains dry. His throat hurts, but it's not his pain. He feels like an intruder witnessing these deaths.

The tiny cabin seems twice its size when Sam is left alone. He cleans up their plates from breakfast and fetches some firewood from the bin on the porch. He burns his finger lighting the kindling and thinks about the seven people who burned to death in their home last week.

Sam knows what it feels like to die in every way possible. Dying doesn't hurt, it's the part that comes before he's afraid of. The feeling of death, finally letting go, is something he hates to admit looking forward to.

The breeze filters inside, gently rattling the broken door. He examines the lock, or lack thereof, and swallows. There's a toolkit under the sink and Sam spends his morning doing his best to fix what he broke. Once the new lock is fixed in place, Sam feels himself breathe easy for the first time since it was damaged.

The look on Dean's face. He was afraid.

Dean doesn't return by midday and Sam decides to make use of himself. There's an apple tree close by, the season is ripe for picking. He feels naked, outside of the cabin, alone for miles but never feeling completely alone, not out here.

He collects some of the fruit, cradling the apples in his shirt. He hears nothing but the rustle of leaves. A twig snaps.

Sam stumbles, apples fall from his grip with dull thuds. He glances around, sees nothing but trees. A fox, or a deer, perhaps. Something far more scared of him than he is of it. He rescues his bruised apples, now dusted with mud, and carries them back to the cabin.

He locks the door.

.

Dean returns with a triumphant rattle of grocery bags. He settles them on the kitchen table and tosses Sam a candy bar. Sam puts it in his pocket to forget about later.

"Did you call Bobby?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean answers, not looking up from his task of unpacking. He hands Sam a couple of tins, which he replaces on the shelf.

"So, someone's going to look into what I saw?" he asks, just to double check.

"Yes, Sam. Don't worry about it."

Sam continues to worry, but decides to shut up about it, anyway. Dean eyes the tap-rinsed apples in the sink and tears open a packet of dried meat. Sam watches him chew and chew it, pictures it getting stuck in his teeth, immediately feels nauseous.

"Where'd the apples come from?" Dean asks. "Don't tell me a creepy old lady gave 'em to you, just know I won't kiss you better if you fall into an apple-induced coma."

He laughs at his own joke, so Sam laughs too, just because.

"I picked them from a tree," he says.

Dean pauses. "What?"

"I picked them."

"Yeah I heard that. Why did you go out?"

Sam blinks at him, unsure if he's hearing things – because it certainly wouldn't be the first time, hearing things is his day-to-day – but Dean's got that look on his face, that intense look that makes his eyes appear even bigger than usual.

"Because… I wanted to go out," Sam answers.

Dean shakes his head. "Sure. Yeah. Just, wait until I'm here next time, okay?"

Sam can't think of anything to say, his mouth stutters uselessly. Finally, he manages, "Why? Dean, I'm a big boy. You don't have to worry about me so much."

"Well," Dean replies with a shrug. "I do. What if you have a vision or something while you're out and I'm not there, huh? What if something happened to you?"

Sam scratches his head. He hates when Dean makes sense. "I didn't go that far. I'm sorry."

"No, man, I'm sorry," Dean says. "I don't mean to smother you." He pauses, perks up suddenly. "Sorry!" Dean exclaims. "I love that game. You know what? I think we might have it here somewhere."

The conversation, Sam supposes, is over.

.

Sam is twitchy. Dean watches him over the game board.

"It's your turn, dude."

Sam blinks back into the room. "Right," he mutters. He takes the dice from Dean and gives them a half-hearted roll. He shakes his hair out of his face, bites his thumbnail, both tell-tale signs that Sam is thinking too much about something.

"What's the matter?" Dean asks.

"Nothing," Sam says. He's quiet, it puts Dean on edge.

"Vision?" Dean guesses.

"No," Sam sighs. "Dean, just – it's not a big deal. Nothing's wrong. Can we just play this stupid game, please?"

Sam passes over the dice and Dean keeps them clamped in his palm, held hostage. "We can quit playing this," he offers. "I figured we could do something nice. Like normal people."

Sam's face falls. "I'm sorry. It feels a bit weird. We never play boardgames. Last time I played a boardgame was in college, and I was drunk."

Dean grins. "Oh, yeah? Good to hear you weren't a total nerd."

Sam taps the arm of the chair, brow furrowed in thought. "I guess I'm just on edge a bit. And I've been thinking… we should take on a case. Just a small one. If I manage it, maybe we can think about going back to work."

"No."

"Dean, what – "

"I said no." Not with Yellow Eyes out there with a target on Sam's back, not with Sam walking around with death in his head, not with Dad's bullshit last words still ringing around Dean's brain.

"I don't think this is a long-term solution, Dean," Sam says in that stupidly reasonable way of his. "I – we can't stay here forever. We have to learn to deal with my… abilities. Because I don't think they're going anywhere."

Sam's face is open, pleading, if he carries on like this any longer, Dean will cave. He digs up the words he knows will be most effective to get Sam to stop.

"You're not ready, Sam," he says. "You could get hurt, _other people_ could get hurt." He takes a breath. "Like Bobby."

Sam pales, his eyes drop to where his hands rest on the table. Dean lands his pawn on the same square as Sam's, knocking it back to _start._


	2. Chapter 2

There's something outside, hiding among the trees. It's late morning and Sam is pressed to the window. He can barely see it; every so often it moves and it's as if it's stepping through states of visibility.

Dean is out there catching fish in the stream. Sam panics, breath fogging up the glass. He squints, sees nothing but trees. But he doesn't need to see it, he can feel it.

He searches for his gun, but finds nothing. A kitchen knife will do, he grabs a box of salt too, and waits by the door. He checks if it's locked, it is, he checks again.

Whatever it is, it simply stands out there and watches, far enough in the distance that Sam can't make out its features. They're still sitting in the outer fragments of the storm from the other night. The trees dance in the wind, they sound like waves crashing over a sandy beach, washing against the outside of the cabin. A strong gust whistles down the chimney. Sam bunches his sweater at his middle and shudders.

It's not the cold that has his hairs standing on end.

He's being watched.

Another place, another time, Sam would be out there with salt rounds and a flask of holy water, stalking and trapping like any good hunter. He's not the same as he was, he can feel it deep inside, a rot in his gut.

He's frailer, his head constantly aches, his vision goes grey whenever he stands up too fast. Dean is right, he's not ready to return to the normal world. He already smashed a glass from all the way across the cabin this morning by accident, a fragment caught Dean on the cheek.

Sam has been so desperate to get out of this goddamn forest since they got here, but now, with whatever is out there, Sam has quickly changed his mind.

He taps his fingers against the window sill. Dean isn't back yet. He doesn't know they're not alone here. He won't be prepared.

Dean appears between the trees, he spots Sam in the window and holds up his bucket in triumph, a successful fishing trip to the stream, but Sam can't smile back. His stomach feels empty and sick with fear. A shape moves behind Dean.

Sam scrambles to the door, the lock is slippery between his fingers, and his panic only rises higher. Once he gets the door open, he stumbles out onto the deck, almost falls at the base of the steps. Dean pauses and instinctively looks behind him.

It's right there. A tall shadow only a few meters behind him. Dean pulls his gun.

"What?" he says, urgent. "Sam, what is it?"

"There!" Sam cries. "Right there!"

It steps closer and Sam grabs Dean's arm, fingernails digging into his skin through his jacket. Dean hisses and stumbles along after Sam, bucket of fish left rattling in the windy clearing.

Inside the cabin, Sam locks the door and pushes the kitchen table in front. Peering out the window, Dean frowns.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"I don't know what it is," Sam pants. "You were closer. What did it look like?"

Dean glances at Sam, eyes not quite meeting Sam's. He looks worried. "Sam, I didn't see anything."

"It's right there," Sam hisses. He inches towards the window Dean peers out of. He can still see it, it's just standing there, a shadow between shadows. "Look! Right there."

Dean squints, leans back, squints against the glass again. "I don't see anything."

"But – " Sam tries, but his adrenaline has drained, his heart sinks deeper and deeper until it's nestled between his toes. "There's something out there," he insists, but his voice is barely more than a rasp. He drops down onto the hard couch.

Dean inches closer. "So, we'll go with you see this thing and I don't, okay?" he says softly. "What was it?"

"I can't see it so well," Sam admits. "It never comes too close. It's just – I don't know. It's tall and human-like, I guess."

Dean attempts another peek out the window, but the furrow that remains in his brow means he still can't see it. "I left the bucket out there," he says, more to himself than to Sam. "I'm going to go get it."

"No!" Sam's up off the couch fast enough that the cabin melts into one big blur and he stumbles. Dean catches his elbow and gently pushes him back to sit.

"I'll take my gun, okay?" he says. "I'll be quick."

"No, don't go out there. Dean, _please_ ," Sam says, he's not afraid to start begging.

"I'll be fast," Dean promises.

"Dean, don't – " Sam scrambles to catch him but his fingertips only scrape the back of his jacket. The door opens and closes with a sudden spurt of cold air, and Sam is left clinging white-knuckled to the couch, alone. His breaths come in and out so fast it hurts. He should get up, he shouldn't let Dean be outside by himself, but Sam can't move. His brain is screaming at him to get up, but his limbs won't comply. They refuse.

The cabin door opens, and Sam scrambles into the corner, back pressed against the wall. Dean gently locks the door behind him and places the bucket of dead fish on the floor beside him.

"I didn't see anything out there," he says, and pauses once he sees Sam, folded to a third his size. "You okay? What happened?"

Sam swallows, his saliva is thick. "Nothing," he replies, his voice is hoarse like an instrument out of tune.

Dean looks at Sam in that assessing way of his. Sam knows exactly what he's thinking. "I'm not crazy," Sam tells Dean.

Dean raises his hands. "Never said you were."

"You were thinking it."

"So, what? You're a mind-reader now, too?"

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a wavering breath. It takes a few moments before he can force himself to his feet, but that's as far as he can go. His eyes drift to the window, to the endless woods beyond the glass. There's nothing there but trees and rotting leaves on the ground, animals scurrying beneath the brush and a strong wind to comb through it all.

"Sam, if there was something out there, it might be gone now," Dean says.

"It's not," Sam says with certainty. He doesn't need to see it, he can still feel it.

Dean nods at the bucket rather than Sam. Sam glares at the window, the space between them is bigger than this cabin ought to allow.

"I'll check it out," Dean says.

Sam's head snaps up. "No, don't do that. You can't go out there."

Dean sighs, scoops the bucket up and carries it over to the kitchen table. He fetches a filleting knife from the rack and slices a silver belly open. "I'll take a look tomorrow," he says, "when it's lighter out. Let's just cook dinner and we can deal with this in the morning."

Sam's eyes sting. "You don't believe me."

"I believe you think there's something out there."

"But _you_ don't believe there's something out there."

Dean hooks his finger around intestines and pulls. "We've been here for weeks. If there was something in this forest, we would have known about it. A wendigo would have tried to eat us as soon as we moved in, it's not a ghost, because nothing shows up on EMF."

"I know this isn't a wendigo or a ghost, this is something different."

"Then what is it?" Dean asks, bloodied fingers resting on the chopping board.

"I don't know!" Sam snaps. "I just know there is _something_ out there."

Dean wets his lips and purses them, brow furrowed. Thinking face. "Sam," he says. "You've been cooped up in here a long time, and I'm sorry. I've been a little too… protective, I guess. I think you need to eat some real food, get some sleep and some fresh air. Okay?"

He picks up his knife and directs it over the fish. It comes down in one fell swoop, severing the head. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't wait for Sam to say anything else. He doesn't even look up when Sam pulls all the curtains closed, washing them in darkness.

* * *

Sam doesn't sleep. He lies awake on the lower bunk, listening to Dean's snores above. It's so dark Sam can't see his own hand in front of his face. He wiggles his fingers around. He can feel them more than see them. Just like he can feel what's waiting outside.

Dean thinks Sam's crazy. Fine. Dean's always looked at Sam like he's a freak. Sam's used to it. When Sam had his first visions, Dean had given him the same look he's giving Sam now. Something is wrong with Sam and it scares Dean.

Maybe there is something wrong with him. Actually, Sam _knows_ what's wrong with him. Shattering glasses and flinging books across the room with your mind when you get a little worked up isn't anywhere near the category of normal.

 _Aren't you worried I could turn into Max or something?_ Sam once said to Dean. Dean had been so sure he wouldn't.

 _Here we are, Dean_ , Sam thinks, _what are you going to do with me?_

Sam's own thoughts answer him. _He'll lock you away in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere, far enough that you won't hurt anyone else._

Dean grunts in his sleep, the bedsprings creak as he turns over. Sam's toes peek out from his blanket and he tucks them in, curling up as tight as he can, enough so the blanket can cover every part of him. Seven-year-old Sam did this when there was a monster in the closet. Dad's not here this time to give him a .45.

Dad would believe Sam, surely, he was paranoid enough to see monsters in every shady corner. If he were here, maybe he'd see a monster in his own son. Maybe that's what Dean sees.

Sam pulls the blanket back and breathes the cool air. The cabin creaks under the pressure of the wind, and Sam shudders, every muscle in his body pulled tight and trembling.

There's a _thud_ at the door. Sam sits up and listens to the rusted whinge of the door handle twisting. The lock holds tight and the handle rattles with impatience.

Sam reaches out blindly and feels his hand smack against the meat of Dean's arm and he wakes up mid-snore.

"Huh? What?" he asks, his voice is ragged with sleep.

"I _told you_ ," Sam hisses. "Something's trying to get in."

The bedsprings creak and Dean drops to the ground. The door handle rattles one final time. They wait in the dark.

"It's just the wind," Dean says. Sam shrinks away from sudden torch light, he can see Dean's dark silhouette behind it, peering down at him.

"The door handle was turning," Sam whispers. "Something was trying to get in."

"You saw this?" Dean asks, doubtful.

Sam pulls his quilt up to his neck and focuses on the tiny stitches rather than Dean's face. "No. It was dark, but I _heard_ it."

Dean scrubs a hand over his sleep-crusted eyes and asks, "Have you had any sleep tonight?"

"No," Sam bites back. "I can't fucking sleep when there's something out there."

Dean lifts one shoulder. "You've spent the night in plenty of creepy places, Sam. Why are you so scared?"

Sam wraps his arms around his hollow belly. It's like someone scooped it clean. The gooseflesh on his arms won't go away, he can't stop shaking. "I don't know," he admits. "It's just a feeling."

"You're starting to worry me, Sammy."

Sam scoffs. "Starting to?"

"Fine. You're worrying me more than usual."

"Well," Sam says, licks his dry lips. "You shouldn't. Worry about whatever it is that's out there."

* * *

Dean doesn't sleep well and for the first time in a long time he wakes up late. Sam is already up and by the look of him he never went to sleep. Dean finds him hunched in a blanket, staring out the window. Dean takes a peek and sees nothing.

He decides to make coffee. Although, Sam would probably be better off with a sleeping pill. The coffee pot whistles on the stove and he fills his cup. It burns his frozen fingers, scalds his tongue but it goes down smoothly.

"It still there?" Dean ventures. Sam doesn't turn away from the window, simply nods.

It isn't until he's sitting at the table with his mug that he notices his gun in Sam's trembling hands. That wakes him up faster than the caffeine. He stands up, slowly.

"What's it doing?" he asks, inching closer.

"Just standing there," Sam says. He doesn't blink, doesn't move, not even to shake away the greasy strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes.

"What does it look like?" Dean goes on. He's not really paying attention to what Sam's saying, just the gun in his hands, and all the possible places that gun might be aimed. Sam, when he's not batshit insane, is good company. Dean misses racing down highways and cruising down backroads with Sammy by his side, music blasting. Prank wars and burgers for dinner on the side of the road.

Dean misses that. He misses Sam.

Maybe these powers have screwed with Sam's head. Like Max. Jesus.

Dean remembers what happened when Max got hold of a gun.

"It's tall. It has – " Sam's voice lowers. "It has one yellow eye."

Dean pauses. "Yellow eyes?"

Sam nods. "Just one. Like a torchlight."

Dean crouches down beside him and rests his fingers over Sam's knuckles. Sam twitches but doesn't move, doesn't let go of the gun.

"Sammy," Dean says. "You're shaking. You haven't slept and I'll bet you're seeing two of everything right now. If we need to shoot, let me do it, okay?"

"You can't see it," Sam spits, his voice sounds more accusing than anything else.

"No," Dean admits. "But I've shot invisible things plenty times before. Give me the gun, okay?"

Sam's eyes finally shift to Dean and he frowns. "I'm not going to shoot myself."

The words are hard to swallow but Dean gulps them down all the same. "No, I know. I'd just feel better if the gun was in steadier hands."

Sam rolls his eyes and hands it over, he turns his gaze back to the window. He straightens. "It's gone," he says. "Where the fuck did it go?"

Dean places the gun at the back of his belt and stands. "I guess that means you can take a break, huh? Let me make you some breakfast."

"Not hungry, Dean."

"Eggs, scrambled or fried?" Dean asks, ignoring him.

* * *

Sam feels death four more times that day. Cancer, hit and run, stabbing, old age. Each one hits him harder than the last. He wavers on his feet and his eyes keep losing focus. As soon as the vision is over, he forgets their faces. The guilt he feels is like a festering wound, there's nothing he can do to patch it up.

Dean watches Sam, he keeps the guns hidden. The knives in the kitchen have disappeared. Sam is too tired to protest. He only has energy for one thing. The fear in him is like a raging fire, the smoke clogs the cabin.

Sam wants to tell Dean he isn't crazy but he knows the exact words that would be on the tip of Dean's tongue. _Crazy people always insist they aren't crazy._

Fine. Sam might be crazy but he's certainly not an idiot. There's more to Dean's anxiety than Sam's state of mind. Sam watches from his cot as Dean fries fish on the stove. Neither of them has been outside today and it's already noon. The windows rattle, another storm is on the way.

"It's going to be a bad one," Sam says.

Dean shakes the frying pan resulting in a hiss of salty steam. "Huh?" he asks, not turning around.

"The storm," Sam elaborates. "It's going to be a bad one. The worst yet."

Dean shrugs. "We've dealt with worse."

Sam shakes his head and watches the trees quiver outside. The wind whistles down the chimney and fills the cabin with chilled air. "I think maybe we should leave," he says.

Dean turns around then. "Really? You haven't gone outside in days."

Sam bites his nail and stares at the door handle, breath held as he waits for it to turn. It doesn't, only the wind comes knocking.

"With the storm and… whatever's out there, we're not safe," Sam says. His voice is a mere scratch beneath the swelling storm. "I can't stay here any longer. I can't keep being scared, Dean."

Dean doesn't say anything, simply turns around and shuts off the hob. He flips the fish onto a plate, one side charred black. "Sammy, I get it," he says.

 _No, you don't,_ Sam thinks.

"But the storm will hit soon and it's too late to leave now," Dean continues. "We'll wait until it passes and think about all this then."

Sam's fingers scrape through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. He resists the urge to tug. "We need to go," Sam grinds out. His hands are shaking, he clamps them between his knees to hold them steady. There's something new pooling in his belly, atop the fear of whatever's outside, atop the frustration of being pinned between these four walls.

The last time he felt this – this trembling grief for some unknown loss – was before he lost Jess. The words are spoken clearly in his mind.

 _Something terrible is going to happen._

"We have to go," Sam says again, but his words are barely there, his breaths rush in and out, more furiously than the wind beats against the cabin.

"Calm down, okay?" Dean pleads, but his voice sounds distant, like he's speaking underwater. He's in front of Sam as sudden as a match strike and Sam jolts back a step. Dean frowns at him, a greased hand reaches for Sam's shoulder.

Sam sees it out of the corner of his eye. It's there, always there. It only watches, its tall silhouette framed in the window. There's a crack of lightning so loud Sam's ears ring. Cold air rushes into the room and Sam opens his eyes to find glass smattered across the floor and Dean on the ground with his hands over his head.

Dean's gun trembles in Sam's hand. He doesn't remember pulling it from Dean's belt, or aiming, or pulling the trigger.

The window has a starburst shaped gash through the middle and there's nothing on the other side but the forest. Sam allows Dean to pull the gun from his grip, he can barely breathe let alone move. The storm tumbles into the cabin, wind sweeps Sam's hair from his face.

"What the hell was that?" Dean bellows over the din.

"It – it was…." Sam tries, but his voice whittles away to nothing. He can't look away from the window.

"We need to patch that up," Dean says, as if Sam hadn't even opened his mouth. He steps over the carpet of glass shards and keeps Sam in the corner of his eye as if he's a wolf with his lips pulled back over his canines, ready to pounce.

Thunder comes then, the low belly rumble of a god or a giant. The sky is thick with grey clouds. Sam's legs begin to work again and he stumbles forward a couple of steps. Dean watches him over his shoulder and clears his throat.

"There's a plastic sheet outside in the shed," he calls over howling wind. "I'll go get it to cover the window."

The wind pushes Dean back a step when he opens the door, Sam sees his muscles straining as he yanks it closed. Sam wants to tell him to come back, a broken window isn't worth going outside, especially when something is lurking in the shadows.

A small voice at the back of Sam's mind says, reasonably, _maybe you are crazy._

A shrill _beep_ jolts Sam out of his haze. The wind shrieks through the break in the glass and down the chimney and vibrates from Sam's head to toes. The _beep_ comes again, from behind. A small red light flashes under Dean's cot.

Sam's hands are shaking as he crouches down and pulls the cell phone from underneath. _Low Battery_ , it tells him with urgent flashing letters. Sam hasn't seen a cell phone in weeks, not since they arrived here. No signal, Dean said. No point in keeping them out here. They left them all in the Impala.

Or so Sam thought.

There are several voice messages in the inbox, each one from Bobby Singer. Sam's stomach twists at the sight of his name. Sam will never get the image of Bobby, dazed, blood trickling from his temple where he hit the wall. Sam was upset, he doesn't quite remember why now, and something swelled through him like an electric current. Bobby was in front of him, and then he was hitting the wall on the other side of the room.

Sam can only imagine what Bobby might have to say. He takes a breath and presses the phone to his ear.

" _Dean, I hope you boys are doing okay. You left pretty sudden and I can't help but worry. I know you boys can look after yourselves but… it might do my blood pressure some good if you call me back and let me know you're both alright."_

" _Dean, at least tell me where you two are. I've tried calling Sam, too. Neither of you are answering. Look, there are things going on that I think you boys need to know about. Call me back."_

" _Ellen called. Ash has been keeping track of kids like Sam and a couple of them have turned up dead. I know it ain't no coincidence. Keep an eye on that brother of yours, you hear. Watch out for him."_

" _Andy Gallagher, Scott Carey and Lily Baker have all turned up dead. Ava Wilson is missing, her fiancé found dead. All these kids are like Sam. Dean, something bad is coming for him. Hunters, I think. You remember Gordon Walker? Please just – just let me know where you are, boy. I can help."_

" _I'm hoping you're just stupid enough not to answer your phone and you're not dead. You two better not be dead. I'll salt and burn you myself if you've gone and gotten yourselves killed… I miss you boys. Look after yourselves."_

The phone _beeps_ again and Sam lowers it. The screen has gone black. Sam's hands shake so hard he loses his grip on the cell. He drops down onto the cot. Dean comes back in wrestling a plastic sheet, his hair has been flattened by rain and wind. He offers Sam a half-smile when he comes in, slamming the door closed and pinning it with his back.

"It's a mess out there," he pants. "I think there's some duct tape under the sink. Grab it, would you?"

Sam does as he's told, moving at an aching pace. He hands the roll to Dean and watches him secure the sheet over the window frame.

"Your phone is out of battery," Sam says finally.

"Huh?" Dean pauses.

"Your phone under the bed. It's out of battery."

"Oh," Dean says. He turns around, looks up at Sam. "I just kept one for emergencies."

Sam shrugs. "I thought there's no cell service here."

"There's not."

"You got five voice messages from Bobby."

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes past Sam. He scoops up a warm beer from the sink and twists off the cap. "What is this, Sam? An interrogation?"

"Why did you lie about there being no signal?" Sam demands. He can feel that swell, that vibration through his bones, a bomb seconds from going off. He stamps it down. "Dean, why didn't you tell me about the messages?"

"It wasn't important."

Rage splits through Sam like a knife. The beer bottle in Dean's hand shatters, soaking his feet and the floor, singed with pink from Dean's cut fingers. He jolts back a step and swears. When he looks up at Sam his eyes are so wide, they're more white than green.

"Not important?" Sam bellows. "People like me are being hunted! You don't think that's important?"

"I was protecting you!" Dean yells back. "The further you are from that crap, the better. Be pissed at me all you want, but I did the right thing!"

Sam scoffs. "Because you're always right," he spits. "And I can't be trusted, yeah? I'm the freak, I'm not natural. Lock me up, keep me away from the world. Just like any monster."

"Jesus, Sam. Don't be so fucking dramatic," Dean says. He steps closer, broken glass crunching under his feet. "Look, we can deal with this later. Right now, we need to get through this storm."

"Just tell me why!" Sam demands. "Why did you keep all this from me?"

"Because Dad said – " Dean blurts, but immediately cuts himself off.

"Dad said what?"

Dean sighs, his shoulders sag as if shedding a weight, or perhaps shouldering more. "He said," Dean says, "that if I couldn't save you, I'd have to kill you."

The words sting like a slap across the face. Sam stops breathing and when he finally empties his lungs, the last two windows in the cabin shatter to pieces. Sam feels static through every nerve. He looks up at Dean, panting, and expects to see that horrified look on his face again. He realises then that he doesn't care if Dean is afraid of him.

But he doesn't have long to process this thought. Everything in him screams to _get out._ He turns to the door but his wrist is caught in an iron grip. Dean's fist swings towards his face and Sam registers the explosive pain in his head before everything - the raging storm and the thrumming energy under Sam's skin and Dean's face - disappears altogether.

* * *

The third and final chapter will be posted tomorrow. Reviews are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

Someone is screaming when Sam wakes. He lies there, trying and failing to open his eyes. His head hurts, like someone drilled a nail through his skull. Gathering his thoughts is like gathering a cloud of smoke in his hands. He wants to drift back to wherever he was, back to the dark. Someone is screaming.

He peels his eyes open and it's just as dark as when they were closed. His senses kickstart one by one. His mouth is desert-dry, his skin is tight with cold. His ears start to work again and the screaming isn't screaming. A storm rages above, fearsome and destructive.

"Jesus." That's Dean. His voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a tunnel, closer and closer, like and oncoming train Sam can't move out of the way of.

"Sam," Dean says. "Are you okay?"

"You hit me," Sam replies. It comes back to him in pieces, he arranges the puzzle in his mind starting with the edges.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. His voice is small under the raging wind above them. "I just – I had to stop you."

Sam sits up. He feels like he's doing somersaults simply by sitting still. His stomach twists. If he throws up, he's doing it on Dean. Wherever Dean is. Sam squints in the dark.

"Where are you? Where are _we?"_

"I'm right next to you. I turned the lamp off, didn't want to make you feel worse than you probably already do," Dean says, matter-of-fact. "Sorry about hitting you, by the way."

When Dean says _sorry_ , what he really means is _I'd do it again_.

"We're in the basement," Dean adds. "I figured we'd be safer down here."

Sam lowers himself back down and closes his eyes. He's never been so tired. "I didn't even know there was a basement here," he says. "There's a lot I didn't know."

He hears Dean sigh. "I was keeping all that from you because I was scared, alright?" Dean says. Overhead, something cracks like a whip. A tree snapping, perhaps. Dean carries on like he didn't hear it, "Everything Bobby said, it scared me, man. I knew it had something to do with you and I just wanted to keep you far away from that."

"That wasn't your choice to make," Sam snaps, and promptly winces, head pounding. "Look, Dean. I get it. I get that you're scared of losing me, but you're acting crazy, don't you see?"

Dean huffs a laugh. " _I'm_ crazy? Jesus, Sam. I'm not the one shooting at shadows."

Sam opens his eyes and turns his head in the direction of Dean's voice. "You still don't fucking believe me," he mutters. He raises his voice above the rushing waves of the storm. "Dean, you realise you're keeping me captive, right?"

"Fuck, Sam. That's not what this is. I'm keeping you _safe_."

"You wouldn't let me leave," Sam says. "You kept the phones away from me. You kept Bobby's messages from me. When I tried to leave, you knocked me out."

Dean is quiet for a moment, and in this unbearable dark, Sam could believe he'd vanished, or was simply never there to begin with. "I lost Mom," Dean says, and Sam startles. "I lost Dad. I'm not losing you, too."

Sam rolls away, cot creaking under his weight. "Maybe you already have."

* * *

Sam doesn't mean to fall asleep. The sun rises between blinks, from lying cold in the dark beneath a raging storm to thin lines of morning light coming through the floorboards. He must have been more tired than he thought, or maybe it's the hit to the head that had him falling so easily into unconsciousness.

The wind is still wild, but the roaring tsunami of last night has whittled down to gentle moans. Dean is asleep, propped up against the wooden stairs, gun on his lap. Sam doesn't want to know what the gun was for. Bullets wouldn't stop a storm.

He moves so slow he holds his breath. The cot creaks, but Dean doesn't wake. He breathes in deep at the foot of the steps. They look old, likely to kick up a fuss under feet as heavy as Sam's. He tests his weight on the bottom step and is relieved to find it unbothered. He keeps going to the next one, and the next. The fourth rouses under his weight and groans. He freezes.

Dean stirs beneath him, coughs.

"Sam?" he says to the empty cot.

Sam scrambles to the top of the stairs and shoves at the trap door. He hears Dean clamber to his feet below, hears the creak of the fourth step as he follows. Sam bursts through the door and into the sun-soaked cabin. Everything is awash with dawn light, golden and red. The lock on the front door gave way in the night, a mess of twigs and dead leaves carpet the hardwood.

The leaves crunch under his feet as he runs out the door. He doesn't stop at the treeline, where his creature has been waiting; he keeps going. Dean cries out to him from behind, his voice never drifting further away. Dean's fast but Sam is faster, he lets his long legs carry him through the forest.

He doesn't know where he's going. Each step looks the same as the one before. Each tree is a replica of the last. He doesn't have time to think of direction, all he can do is run and run and run.

"Sam, stop!" Dean's voice is breathless, distant.

Sam's heart pounds fast enough to ache, his whole chest is on fire. He hasn't felt this good in a long time. It surges through him, from his middle to his extremities. There's a tree broken from its roots, waiting to fall. Sam focuses all of his anger and fear and pain on that tree. As he runs by, he stretches his hand, pushes at air like he's pushing through water.

He hears it fall to the ground with a crack. He risks a peek over his shoulder and watches Dean stumble over the fallen trunk to the ground. He picks himself back up, jeans torn and bloody at the knees.

"Sam, look out!"

His legs, cramped and aching, are willing to obey and Sam skids through crisp orange leaves to his knees, right where the ground ceases to exist. There's a sloped drop about fifteen feet deep, straight to a rocky crag below.

His fingers curl and grip at tree roots as he pants, trying to catch his breath.

"Sam," Dean says, voice approaching. "Sammy, stop. I'm sorry for lying to you, and for punching you. Let's just go back to the cabin. We can leave now. We can pack up and go. Wherever you want."

Sam sucks in a painful gulp of air and wipes forehead sweat on the back of his hand. His mouth is full of saliva and he spits a mouthful over the edge. Dean takes a step closer and Sam's palm comes up, sending Dean skidding back as if hit by last night's storm.

"Dean," he says, words forcing themselves out between wheezing breaths. "I'll go with you, okay? But once we get out of here, I think I'll go my own way. Just for a little while."

He looks up at Dean's face, red-cheeked and wind-swept. His brows are drawn at the middle, lips pinched together.

"What if something happens?" he asks. "You heard what Bobby said. People like you are turning up dead."

"I'll go to Bobby, then," Sam offers. "Somewhere safe. I just need time… away from you."

Dean swallows thickly and Sam thinks maybe he'll march over and tackle Sam, drag him back to the cabin and stuff him in the basement again. Instead, he nods.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, Sam. I'm so sorry. I just panicked."

"I know," Sam says softly, rising to his feet. He holds out his hands like Dean is a startled dog, and Dean gives a tiny smile. Behind Dean, coming closer and closer, Sam sees it. Fear hollows out his chest and time seems to slow as it approaches. Sam _sees_ it this time. He can see its face.

"Oh, God," he hears himself say. He stumbles, backwards, and the world tilts upside-down. The last thing he sees before he falls over the edge is Dean's face, seconds before panic kicks in, and just behind him, something all too familiar.

* * *

Waking up in strange, dark places is becoming too common. The moon is a bright thumbprint in the sky, its light catches the stream in silver, the water laps at Sam's feet. He sits up. It's dark but the moon and stars fill the sky like lanterns. Sam can see the silhouettes of trees.

He stands, unsteady on the rocky ground. He catches himself on hard stone, a wall of dirt and tree roots that stretches up into the dark. He remembers standing up there with Dean, but it feels so long ago it might have been a dream.

He fell, Sam remembers that surely. At least, he remembers the falling part, just the beginning as the sky went from above to below.

His head aches, sharp right behind his left eye, every bone in his body complains about some ache or another.

"Dean?" he calls out and upwards. There's no answer but that of an owl, and his own voice bouncing off the cliff wall and back to him. He tries again and again, but Dean doesn't reply.

Maybe his powers protected him. And maybe. Maybe Dean is gone, taken by that thing. He remembers that, briefly. It's shape as it grew nearer, its face like a shadow over Dean's shoulder.

Sam begins to walk, over rocky ground in the pitch black. One leg threatens to buckle with each step, but he keeps going. The cliff slopes down to the stream and Sam hoists himself up by the branch of a tree. He wishes he had a flashlight or his phone, anything that might light his path.

Walking through the woods this late at night is barely different from walking blindfolded. Each slight rustle sends his heart racing, has him ducking down and searching the dark for that yellow eye. Sam turns his eyes upwards and finds the moon and stars, just to be sure they're still there, that there's more out here than only darkness. He feels for a tree trunk and levers himself to his feet. He walks on.

The cabin windows illuminate in the distance like pinpricks in a lampshade. Sam hurries, legs eating up the ground at an uneven pace. The bright yellow windows get bigger and bigger in the dark. He lets out a shaky breath, one his fear had kept encased within him, and he stumbles up the porch steps. The door is jammed shut. Sam frowns and yanks at the handle. No matter how hard he pushes, it won't budge.

He calls for Dean and gets no answer. The lock was blown off twice, by both Sam and the wind. Sam smacks the door, and kicks it for good measure, but still he gets no reply.

He sidesteps to the window.

The first thing he sees is his brother. Dean is coiled tight, perched on one of the kitchen chairs by empty fireplace. His hands are clenched, white-knuckled and propped under his chin. He stares into an empty corner of the room, his equally empty expression bathed in weak lamplight.

Sam taps the window, but Dean doesn't so much as twitch. His face is hard as stone, his jaw clenched and trembling.

Then, Sam sees what Dean is deliberately not looking at. Stretched out on the couch, too-long legs hanging over the edge, is himself. It takes a moment to recognise his own face; he's whiter than white, grey around the edges. One eye is dipped closed, the other is missing altogether. A thick twig protrudes from his left socket and another sticks out of his belly.

His mind goes to an unexpected place at the sight, the same place it goes when he investigates corpses at morgues. Pure curiosity and morbid fascination. Sam thinks maybe he should be panicking more, but he's beyond that.

"It's okay," a soft voice says. Sam turns and finds a young woman, alight even in the dark. She smiles at him and holds out her hand. Sam knows exactly what she is. "It's time to go, now," she says.

Sam lifts his hand, feels it drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She radiates calm, Sam feels each of his aches and pains fade away.

"I can make all of this go away," another voice says inside. Sam turns away from the reaper and peers through the window. Dean doesn't look up, not even when a hand reaches over the couch and grips the twig in Sam's eye. There's a wet sound as it's pulled free.

"You've taken everything from me," Dean says flatly.

Sam has never seen this man before, but his yellow eyes are unmistakeable. Sam has dreamed about those eyes, about them fizzling away to nothing, one of the Colt's bullets embedded between them. White hot fury ripples through Sam. Yellow Eyes grins at Dean, dazzling white smile, and lays a hand on his shoulder. Dean shrugs him off, mouth curled in disgust.

"We have to go!" Sam's reaper hisses, gripping his shoulder. He shakes her off, not tearing his eyes away.

"I know, I know. The business with Mommy and Daddy was nasty," says Yellow Eyes, "but what happened to poor Sam here has nothing to do with me."

"Everything has been because of you!" Dean snaps, gaze finally pulled away from the corner of the room. When he looks at Yellow Eyes, his eyes are shining wet and full of hate.

Yellow Eyes chuckles and raises his hands. "I wouldn't say _everything_. Sure, I pull a string here and there, but this path was paved by very human decisions. Yours, to be exact. If you hadn't gone wacko and locked your brother away, he wouldn't have run from you."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Jesus. I don't need the lecture. Why don't you just hurry up and kill me already?"

Sam bangs his fist against the wall and tries to reach his hand through where the empty window pane was, to no avail. He cries, "No! Dean!"

Two yellow eyes slide over to the window, to Sam. He gives him a wink. Sam is struck cold.

"I'll make you a deal here, Dean-o," Yellow Eyes says, turning his attention back to Dean. "I'll bring back Sam and in exchange – "

"Yes," Dean says, quick as a bullet.

The demon raises an eyebrow. "You don't want to hear my terms?"

"I don't care," Dean grinds out. He gets to his feet. He's taller than Yellow Eyes's meatsuit, but he manages to look so much smaller. He says, "I'll give you whatever you want. Just bring him back."

"Oh, God," the reaper whispers. She tugs on Sam's arm. "Come with me! We need to go right now!"

Yellow Eyes grins. "Nice to have an eager customer," he says, and grips Dean by the shoulders. "Pucker up."

Sam can't look away, the reaper's pleas fall on deaf ears. Dean's face is twisted and sour, eyes clenched closed. Sam screams at him through the window, but the only Sam Dean can see is the one on the couch.

"It's too late," the reaper says from behind. She looks up at him mournfully. "I'm sorry," she says. "I tried."

When the smoke comes, she doesn't try to fight. The look she gives Sam is one of pure agony and she closes her eyes. When they open, Sam sees only yellow.

The feel of her palm against his forehead is like a shock of lightning.

* * *

Sam doesn't speak for a long time after he wakes up, but Dean doesn't mind. Sam is here. He's _here._ Sam doesn't have to say anything for as long as he lives, so long as he lives a long time. He's quiet as Dean opens the medical kit to bandage up Sam's eye. Maybe Dean should have read the terms and conditions, he should have asked for Sam's eye to come included in the resurrection.

Dean doesn't care. He doesn't care if hellhounds come for him any second. Having Sam here, warm and breathing and _alive_ , Dean doesn't need anything more. The feeling of Sam's body, cold and stiff, broken bones uneven under his skin, is one he'll never forget, one he'll have nightmares about for the rest of his days. He keeps one hand pressed to Sam's chest, just to feel his heart beat beneath his ribs.

"You shouldn't have done that," are Sam's first words.

"Done what?" Dean asks. Sam's lungs fill and empty, his chest gently rises and falls beneath Dean's palm.

"You made a deal," Sam accuses.

Dean doesn't reply. He removes his hand from Sam's chest and slowly winds the bandage around Sam's head.

"I died," Sam says. "And you brought me back."

Dean pauses, looks him straight in the eye. "Yeah, I did. I'd do it again."

"And in ten years you go to hell?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I didn't ask what I was giving. It doesn't matter anyway."

"Of course, it does!" Sam yells. He pushes Dean away and gets to his feet. He pulls off the bandages and drops them on the floor as he wanders over to the window. He stares outside and the dark stares right back. He isn't afraid, Dean realises. Sam seems taller, somehow.

"It doesn't matter to me," Dean says. "You're worth more than anything. Even my soul."

"God, you're an idiot," Sam says, voice low through gritted teeth. The pressure in the room drops and the fireplace flickers. The skin on Dean's arms rise with gooseflesh, a chill runs up his spine. He tries to forget what Yellow Eyes did right before Sam took his first breath of his new life. He tries not to think about the stink of sulphur as he sliced his wrist, the _pat, pat, pat_ of crimson droplets on Sam's tongue. He tries to forget, but when he looks at Sam all he sees is how red his lips are.

Dean flinches when a lamp shatters beside the bunkbed. Sam keeps glancing out the window. When he speaks, his voice is flat, empty, "I saw it. The thing in the woods. I know what it was."

"What was it?" Dean asks, even though he knows he doesn't want the answer. He has never felt fear like this, not when Dad died, not even when Sam died. He knows if he opened his mouth now, no words would come out. Every inch of him is frozen stiff, he doesn't dare move.

Sam turns, half his face caked in dried blood beneath his empty socket. A single yellow eye stares down at Dean, red lips part, his face is lax with wonder. Sam's voice fills the room, "It was my future."

END

* * *

A/N: I hope this was suitably chilling. I loved writing it and I'd love to hear your thoughts.


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